


He Thinks Terrible Things

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Demons and Angels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s05e05 Demons and Angels, Episode: s06e02 Legion, Episode: s07e02 Stoke Me a Clipper, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, Legion - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Stoke Me a Clipper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-28 10:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8442970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: "Seems a bit homophobic, doesn’t it? Low you being gay. Not just that, but you were all got up, too, fishnets and leather and spiked collars and feathers everywhere. Couldn’t even be a tasteful stereotype."Lister has a few questions about Rimmer's evil self created by the triplicator which Rimmer very much does not want to examine. Very, very much.





	

            “Rimmer,” Lister mused, not quite reading the comic book he held aloft over his head in his bunk – “why was the evil version of you gay?”

            To his credit, Rimmer’s first response was merely to stop at the ‘crouch’ part halfway through his jumping-jack-crouch-push-up regime, and narrow his eyes up at Lister.

            “Listy, if you’re going to spout nonsense,” he said, airily superior, “then by Space Corps Directive seven-twenty-four-point-three-bee, I’ll be _obliged_ to have you sent to the medi-bay for psychological testing.”

            “I am one hundred percent certain that’s not what _Space Corps Directive seven-twenty-four-point-three-bee_ means,” Lister returned.

            “Then what _does_ it mean, you jumped-up goit, if you know so much?” Rimmer snapped, and hopped back into a push-up, going on with his routine.

            “No idea,” Lister shrugged, “but I know it isn’t that.”

            Rimmer jumped to his feet and stopped, breathing out hard even though he didn’t need to, as if the exercises were a bracing but manageable challenge.

            “The problem with you, Listy my boy,” he drawled, “is that you just don’t care, do you? Not – a – jot.”

            “Not about _Space Corps Directives,_ I don’t,” Lister said, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, that’s beside the point – you haven’t answered my question.”

            Rimmer’s nose screwed up, creasing half his face.

            “Well I’d answer it if it made any sense!” he cried. “‘Why was the _evil version of me –’”_

            “– gay, exactly!” Lister finished for him, finally dropping his comic behind his pillow and facing Rimmer. “Or bi, or whatever, not my place to judge, I suppose.”

            “No, of course not,” Rimmer sneered. “What in smegging hell are you talking about?”

            “The evil version of you!” Lister shuffled onto his front and propped himself up on his elbows to better face the rest of the room, and the grumpy hologram it contained. “You know, from the triplicator.”

            “The _triplicator?”_ Rimmer repeated. “Lister, that was weeks ago, why are you bothering about it now?”

            “It’s just been bothering me, you see,” he shrugged. “I’ve been trying to get my head around it, but it doesn’t make sense.”

            “With your brain, no,” Rimmer muttered, “very little does.”

            “Smeg off,” Lister threw back at him, mostly out of habit.

            “All right, Lister,” Rimmer conceded, crossing his arms, “what makes you think the evil version of me was gay?”

            “Or bi, or –”

            “Or whatever, yes.” Rimmer waved away the particulars.

            Lister snorted. “Well, he was coming on to me pretty strong,” he said. “And _I’m_ a man, and _you’re_ a man – more or less –”

            “Oi!”

            “– so, y’know. Two plus two and all that.”

            There was a long pause, as Rimmer sucked on his teeth, seeming to take in the information. The he opened his mouth with a loud _tut!_ , frowned up at Lister and said:

            _“You?”_ He made a low _huh_ sound of realisation. “They really were the lowest of the low, weren’t they?”

            “Wait a minute, now!” Lister protested, leaning over the edge of his bunk. “I’m very desirable, I’ll have you know, plenty of blokes have been interested in me!”

            “Really?” said Rimmer, his eyebrows jumping almost to his hairline and back. “Name one.”

            “Well – I don’t know all their _names_ – but –” Lister stammered – “but – what about Jensen, from Engineering?”

            _“Jensen_ wasn’t interested in _you!”_ Rimmer whined.

            “He _was!”_

            “No he wasn’t!” Rimmer’s voice was edging towards childishness. “Why _would_ he be, honestly. You’re a slob, Lister! What’s meant to be attractive about you to _anyone?”_

            “Well, you sure didn’t seem turned off on that other ship –” Lister tried, but Rimmer cut him off, one index finger raised like a teacher in admonishment.

            “Ah ah ah, Listy, not _me_ – the _other_ me,” he corrected. _“Low_ me. Not me at all.”

            “See, that’s what I’m trying to figure out!” Lister said, shifting about on his elbows. “Seems a bit _homophobic,_ doesn’t it? Low you being gay. Not just that, but you were all got up, too, fishnets and leather and spiked collars and feathers everywhere. Couldn’t even be a _tasteful_ stereotype.”

            “So low me had bad taste in both people and fashion, apparently,” Rimmer grumbled, “why do you care?”

            “Well, here’s how it is,” Lister explained, shuffling around again so he could gesticulate with his hands over the edge of the bunk as he spoke. Rimmer – sensing a speech – sat carefully in one of the chairs, crossed one leg over the other, and scowled. “The evil versions of us, right,” Lister went on, “they weren’t us _exactly,_ but they were – _potential_ us-es. Like what Kryten said about the high ones: if we could only access all the information in our subconsciouses, we could be as smart as them, yeah?”

            “Yes…” Rimmer conceded, not without caution.

            “So the low versions of us didn’t come from nothing, that’s what _they_ were telling me, too. They’re made up of all the cruellest, most selfish parts of us.” For a moment, Lister’s voice got a little softer, almost regretful in its hesitant tone. “The little boy that pulls the legs off insects and hurts his friends for no reason.”

            Rimmer – not unusually – looked as if he’d just eaten a lemon.

            “What are you saying, Lister?”

            With a great huff of air and a roll of his eyes, Lister swung himself around to sit up on the edge of his bunk. “What I’m _saying,”_ he demanded, “is that low Rimmer didn’t come out of nowhere, you see? So what is it about you that makes you – or him – or the triplicator, or whatever – think that being gay is so horrible?”

            A deep breath of affront warned of the oncoming, lacklustre defence. “I don’t think being gay is _horrible,”_ Rimmer drawled, all prevarication, “I’d just – rather not be.”

            Lister seemed unimpressed.

            “All right,” he drawled back, “well that’s the most convincing argument _I’ve_ ever heard. But my question stands: if you’re straight –”

            “And I am.”

            “Then what’s so bad about being gay that it made you low?”

            Rimmer’s eyes rolled ceiling-ward, as if seeking help from heaven, or possibly just Holly.

            “Lister, I really don’t know why this is bothering you so much,” he snapped. “Maybe it was just a coincidence. Some kind of accident, a fault in the triplicator – well, _another_ fault. Aren’t there meant to be infinite universes? Surely in _some_ of them one or another of us is – _differently inclined_ – maybe the machine mistook one of those realities for this one. It doesn’t _matter!”_

            Leaning forward on his knees, Lister cocked his head. “Are you homophobic?”

            Nose in the air, Rimmer replied to somewhere on the wall to Lister’s right.

            “I respect the rights of all crew members to identify as, and carry on whatever relationships with, anything and anyone they choose, provided that these activities do not interfere with the safe and efficient running of –”

            “Don’t give me that regulation smeg,” Lister tutted, “everyone knows it doesn’t stop bigoted gimboids from getting on board. _Are – you – homophobic?”_

            “No!”  Rimmer cried. “And stop saying that!”

            “Saying what?”

            _“‘Homophobic’!”_ Rimmer yelped back. “Gay, me, all that smeg – why do you _care,_ those versions of us are gone anyway!”

            The retort was almost as wheedling as Rimmer’s orders while on shift. “Not _really,_ not _totally,”_ Lister said, jabbing a finger across the room at the pursed-lipped hologram. “They’re all a part of us, somewhere, deep down at the backs of our minds, I just want to know!”

            Stamping his crossed foot back to the ground, Rimmer shot to standing, his mouth, nose, and brow all scrunched up in pissed-off, offended, nervous fury.

            _“It’s coincidence!”_ he shouted, starting to pace. “Pure, stupid, smegging coincidence, all right, squire? Why should _that_ be what makes me _low,_ I’m sure there were plenty of other gruesome things about him!”

            “Well, sure, apart from the nose ring,” Lister shrugged. “He was a bit too happy with that holowhip, for one, all of them were very excited about torturing and killing the rest of us. And, to be fair, he was none too keen on asking my consent, if you know what I mean.”

            Halfway across the room, Rimmer froze, only a trace of anger left in his flared nostrils.

            “Maybe that’s what it was, actually,” Lister mused, oblivious to the sudden tension in Rimmer’s throat. “Suppose you were _right_ about Ace – maybe that’s just something about you, or other-dimensions-you, or –”

            “He what?”

            Still mid-stride, Rimmer was looking over his shoulder, up to somewhere around Lister’s knees.

            “What, Ace?” said Lister, and Rimmer’s expression squeezed shut, eyes and mouth and scrunching nose. “You couldn’t _stop_ ribbing him about women’s clothes, and him and me, and marriage and all that –”

            “No, not the smug git – the lows,” Rimmer snapped over him, flinching around a little further, hands twitching. “Torture, killing – _consent._ What did you mean by that?”

            Lister shrugged. “Oh, nothing. He just wasn’t exactly trying to _seduce_ me, if you catch my drift. Kept saying he was gonna ‘have’ me, didn’t seem to care what I thought about the idea. Least Ace would’ve been a gentleman about it, I bet.”

            Rimmer’s response was low, abrupt, and came so quickly that Lister was already talking again before he’d registered it.

            “Oh, God.”

            “Suppose that makes more sense, really,” Lister wondered. “Doesn’t matter who the target was, he was just gonna take what he wanted, wasn’t he? They’re all the most selfish parts of us, and with you being both a hologram and _you,_ you don’t pull much, he just wanted something to have sex with. And since I’m the only human left, I suppose that makes me the most obvious target.”

            “I think I’m going to be sick.”

            The words finally jolted Lister out of his reverie. He looked down to see Rimmer with one hand over his mouth and the other, white-knuckled, on his hip, his whole projection screaming tension.

            “Rimmer, you all right?” Lister asked, jumping down from his bunk. “I didn’t know holograms _could_ be sick.”

            “Well, we might be about to find out,” Rimmer croaked between his fingers. “’Scuse me.”

            With that, he spun on his heel, took two steps towards the loo in the corner, then – before he could get any further – his legs gave way and he staggered to his knees, heaving. The hand on his hip slapped palm-first to the floor (and how _did_ that work, that the floor kept him up even though he was made of light?), and the one on his mouth shot out of the way to grip his stomach. Of course, being a hologram, Rimmer had nothing to throw up, so there was nothing for his hand to get out of the way _of_. Still, he retched, eyes squeezed shut and jaw hanging open, and looked so very miserable, that Lister forgot all thoughts of homophobic triplicators.

            “Smeg,” he breathed out, trying to keep his voice low, “are you all right?” He crouched next to Rimmer, and let his right hand hover over the other man’s shoulder and back, where Petersen had used to pat him kindly while he threw up half a bottle of whiskey after Kochanski dumped him.

            “Fine,” Rimmer gasped, easing back onto his heels as he swallowed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just fine. Must’ve – eaten some bad rehydrated oysters at lunch.”

            “Rimmer,” Lister frowned – “you’re a hologram. You don’t eat.”

            “When I was alive, then.”

            “And it’s taken three million years to hit you?”

            Rimmer wasn’t meeting his eyes.

            “I’ve got an iron stomach.”

            “No you haven’t!” Lister retorted, and the hand that had so recently tried to be comforting flew into the air in frustration. “Alive or dead, you can’t even stand the smell of my vindaloo, you’ve got the nanciest stomach I’ve ever had the displeasure –”

            “Lister, would you _shut – up?!”_ Rimmer snapped at the floor, and there was something in the tenor of his voice – not bitter, but actually angry; not peevish, but afraid – that silenced the man at once. A heavy quiet hung over them, as if Kryten had strung it up from the ceiling of their room in decoration, and the sound of Rimmer swallowing was dampened by it. With a faint rustling of his clothes, Lister started to rise from his crouch, as if to stand and leave: except he didn’t. Instead, he tilted backwards, onto his bum, and crossed his legs at awkward angles in front of him. Rimmer glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

            “What are you doing?” he bit out, in clipped, Ionian syllables.

            “Shutting up,” said Lister, with a shrug of his shoulders.

            Rimmer, of course, had to press the matter.

            “Why aren’t you _going away?”_ he insisted, only succeeding in eliciting another shrug.

            “Look, Rimmer, I may not exactly like you,” Lister explained, “but you’re the only other human company I’ve got on board this smegging ship. Are you sure you’re all right? Maybe the holovirus isn’t as gone as we thought it was. D’you want me to fetch Kryten?”

            “N- _No –”_ The tail end of Rimmer’s objection was swallowed up in another, dry retch, but he wrestled it back under control. “No – no, that won’t be necessary, thank you Lister.”

            “‘Thank you Lister’?” came the bewildered echo. “Something’s _really_ wrong, isn’t it?” Lister raised his voice to split the quiet cloud above them. “Holly! Get Kryten in here, will you?”

            “Right-o, Dave.”

            She’d popped up on the screen for just a moment, bland as always.

 _“No!”_ Rimmer whined, belligerently pushing himself to his feet. “Look, I’m _fine,_ see? It’s not the holovirus, I promise, that was ages ago!”

            A familiar, clunking footstep sounded in the hall.

            “Sirs?” said Kryten, poking his head around the edge of the open door. “Is everything all right?”

            “I think Rimmer’s still got the holovirus,” said Lister, standing and backing away from the hologram till he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Kryten in the doorway. “We were just talking, then he went all peaky and he threw up.”

            “What?” was Kryten’s calm reply, and Lister rolled his eyes.

            “I said he threw up!” he snapped. “Vomited, chucked, tried to call God on the round white telephone!”

            “Forgive me, sir,” said Kryten, with a stiff little bow, “I should have been more clear. _What_ did Mr Rimmer throw up? After all, he is a hologram.”

            “Exactly!” Rimmer piped up, with a gesture of both arms towards Kryten which quivered with frustration. “I’m a hologram, I didn’t throw up, I _can’t_ throw up, and I’m telling you: I, am, _fine!”_

            “I’m very sorry, sir –”

            Kryten’s blocky face was giving as sympathetic an expression as it could, but still Rimmer sneered over him.

            “No you’re not,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “This is just another silly plot to lock me up so you can all have a bit of peace and quiet, is that it?”

            “Rimmer, you were the one who looked like you were gonna faint,” Lister pointed out, and Kryten quickly took up the argumentative baton while Rimmer spluttered with apoplectic objection.

            “And, if you’ll permit me to point out, sir,” he said, “under the influence of the holovirus, you had no idea how sick you really were. If this is some kind of relapse, we need to deal with it before the symptoms get any worse.”

            “It is _not_ the holovirus, and I am _not_ sick!” Rimmer shouted. “Now get out of my way and leave me alone before I have you all court-martialled!”

            “Rimmer, you can’t even do that,” Lister drawled, crossing his arms, and eliciting a simultaneous raised brow and index finger from Rimmer.

            “As the most _senior crewmember_ on board this ship, Lister –”

            “I’m not gonna hear any more of this smeg,” Lister said, uncrossing his arms again and flicking a hand at Rimmer. “Kryten, get him to the medi-bay.”

            “The hell you will!” Rimmer snarled, all nostrils and frown lines; and, before Kryten could make a move, he ran: straight through the table, Lister’s laundry basket, and the inside wall of the bunkroom. For a long moment, Lister and Kryten merely watched the place where he’d disappeared with matching, slack-jawed expressions. Then Kryten’s mouth clicked shut, and Lister followed suit a little slower, puzzling at the wall.

            “Just my professional opinion,” said Kryten, “but that didn’t seem like the effects of a holovirus.”

            “Yeah?” said Lister, faintly. “What did it seem like?”

            “Well, it seemed more like a tantrum.”

            Lister nodded.

            “I’m afraid you’re right,” he said. Kryten’s head turned to look at him.

            “Why afraid, sir?”

            The response was proceeded by a heavy sigh.

            “Because Rimmer’s enough of a smeghead normally, isn’t he?” he said. “Trust me: Rimmer throwing a tantrum is so much more of a pain.”

 

            It took them two days to find Rimmer again. Every time Holly tracked him down, he’d walk through the walls again to get away from his pursuers. Halfway through the second day, the Cat – who, of course, had been pointedly apathetic in the search – had accidentally stumbled into Rimmer while distracted by his own shadow, but even then, with no way to actually hold onto him, by the time Lister and Kryten managed to join the Cat, Rimmer had disappeared again.

            In the end, it was sheer luck which succeeded. They all needed to sleep and eat sometime (except Rimmer), and, seeking at least two or three moments of rest, Lister had retired to the old teaching room to have lunch by himself. Opening the door, however, he found he was not by himself: Rimmer sat in a chair at the back of room, elbows on his knees and a magnificent pout on his face. He looked up at the sound of the door, to where Lister stood with a tray of vindaloo in one hand, and a glass of, of all things, _actual water_ in the other, mouth having fallen half-open in surprise to leave a cigarette dangling from his lips. Rimmer rolled his eyes and sighed.

            “I should’ve known,” he groaned. “Two days of trying to get away from you all and I get to be reunited with the biggest goit of the lot because no one else has the constitution to be able to watch him eat without fainting.”

            “I can come back some other time,” Lister offered, gesturing over his shoulder with the curry. “Now we know that _your_ stomach isn’t as made-of-light and non-existent as we thought.”

            Rimmer glared at him. “You’re never going to give this up, are you?”

            “Not until you explain what happened to you, no,” said Lister, as he wound between the tables. He kicked the chair at the table in front of Rimmer around and sat across the desk from him, leaning back and hooking one heavy boot over the opposite leg. The water went on the table behind him, and the food in his lap. “So?” he said, taking his first bite. “You ready to talk about it yet?”

            Rimmer’s top lip had curled in about three different places, and his nose screwed up, nostrils flaring, at having to endure the flecks of half-chewed rice that were spittled out as Lister talked through his food. He raised his right hand, fingers extended as if holding something up.

            “Black card,” he said, all drawled vowels and disgust. “I’m not talking about anything. There’s nothing _to_ talk about.”

            “All right, fine,” Lister grumbled into his curry. “I won’t push it then.”

_“Finally.”_

            “But will you at least come back?” Lister carried on, ignoring him. “Stop all this running away from us, walking through walls smeg.”

            “To tell the truth, the walking through walls part is pretty uncomfortable,” Rimmer said, with a wince. “Makes my projection go all… _tingly._ And not in a good way.”

            “What the smeg’s the good way?” Lister grimaced, but Rimmer ignored him.

            “What about the others?” he said, overriding the train of thought. “Can you stop them asking questions? I just want this whole shipwreck to be over and done with.”

            “Easy,” Lister shrugged. “If I ask Kryten to dust the engine room, that’ll take him a few days at least, and by then he’ll have forgotten all about it.” He brandished his fork at Rimmer, flicking a bit of sauce onto the wall. “And the Cat never cared in the first place.”

            “How reassuring,” Rimmer deadpanned back.

            “So you’ll come back?” said Lister. “I meant what I said, y’know. You drive me bonkers, but you’re still the only half-decent company on board.”

            “Well what do you know,” Rimmer drawled, a hint of familiar sparkle back in his eye. “That was almost a compliment.”

            “That’s not a yes.”

            Rimmer sighed, long and long-suffering.

            “Fine,” he grumbled. _“Yes._ So long as you _drop it.”_

            Lister grinned through a mouthful of curry, and Rimmer almost regretted the decision. But only almost.

 

            In the end, Kryten spent a week and a half dusting the engine room, but really, it was all for the best. At least whoever stole _Red Dwarf_ wouldn’t be sneezing up a storm the first time they inspected the engines.

 

* * *

 

            After the upset with the psirens, getting through the gas nebula was a walk in the park. True, they had a hairy few hours navigating a stray ion storm, and a bit of anxiety as they almost landed on an unstable moon thinking it to be near _Red Dwarf_ ; but nevertheless, by comparison, it was an easy week. They settled into habits, and a watch routine, and without the little skeleton crew realising it, their new life on _Starbug_ became all of a sudden the norm.

            It was unsurprising, then, that Lister didn’t even bother turning in his seat in the cockpit at the sound of footsteps behind him.

            “Changeover already, Kryten?” he said, sounding bored, both eyes more or less affixed on the empty space ahead of them with a fraction of concentration reserved for the mug of tea in his hand. It was not Kryten’s stammer, but Rimmer’s drawl, which responded.

            “Er, _no,_ not _just_ yet. Not for another hour, in fact.”

            Lister just huffed out a laugh at his tetchy tone.

            “Shame,” he said. “I was looking forward to freedom, y’know. Staring aimlessly out a different window, for a change.”

            “Ha, ha,” was all of Rimmer’s dry response, as he stepped aside into Kryten’s usual station and inspected the screens, hands behind his back, screwing up his face in feigned concentration. “You’re not even in the proper _chair_ for navigational watch, Lister, no wonder we’re not getting any closer to _Red Dwarf._ ”

            “Not my fault,” Lister shrugged. “Cat was on watch before me, he put on so much of that cologne he found in one of the bunk rooms, I thought I was gonna pass out if I stayed in that chair more than five minutes. Have a sniff yourself if you don’t believe me, go on.”

            Rimmer turned his narrowed expression on Lister.

            “You know very smegging well that I can’t smell anything properly, miladdo,” he sneered. “And thank you _very_ much for reminding me.”

            “All right, suit yourself…”

            They fell into a mutual silence, as Rimmer rolled his eyes and refocused on the cockpit controls while Lister kept on watching the view ahead. After a long few moments, the low click of a simulated swallow crept across the room to Lister’s ears.

            “Lister,” Rimmer began, his syllables half-clipped and half-drawn-out in hesitation. “The low version of – us…”

            Lister frowned, rather more interested in his half-hearted supervision of _Starbug_ ’s auto-pilot than the odd topic of conversation. “Yeah?”

            Bristling a little at being ignored for some shiny buttons and far-away stars, Rimmer blundered on. “They didn’t – _do anything_ to you. Did they?”

            “Anything like what?”

            “I don’t know! _Anything,”_ Rimmer snapped, with a twitch of his head. “You said they wanted to torture you after all, we never really asked…”

            Lister laughed, shrugging him off. “Nah, not really,” he said, sipping from his mug.

            “Not _really?”_ Rimmer repeated, narrowing everything from his eyes to his voice to the space between them as he leaned, nose first, across the little room towards Lister’s chair.

            “It’s all sort of past and over now,” Lister explained, “but I mean, you saw what they did with trying to make me kill you all.” He gave a second shrug a little less comfortable than the first. “Guess they succeeded with the highs.”

            “Which were about to stop existing anyway,” Rimmer scoffed. “Nothing else?”

            “Nah, nothing else,” Lister said, shaking his head. “Couple of hits with a holowhip from you, and they messed about some with me before sending me off, but –”

            But Rimmer overrode him, in a needling tone.

            “Messed about _how?”_

            Lister just rolled his eyes. “Why are you so insistent about this?” he complained. “Just messed about! Made me trap me own nose in a cupboard, eat a tarantula, bit of hot water on me delicates. I was fine after a few days.”

            Rimmer cocked his head, nose screwing up. For some reason, what he latched onto was:

_“Eat a tarantula?”_

            Lister’s face soured. “Yeah,” he said, wincing a little. “That’s why I couldn’t eat dinner that night, remember? Had to go chuck up the –” He shuddered, unable to finish the thought. _“Eugh.”_

            Turning back to face the controls at Kryten’s station, Rimmer looked away, one holographic hand hovering over the dials and buttons as if to fidget with them, despite not being able to touch them.

            “A live tarantula,” he eventually said, remarkably low, and Lister craned his neck to look at him.

            “Yeah,” he said, half a question.

            “I’m sorry,” Rimmer mumbled, and Lister shrugged his shoulders and mouth.

            “Not your fault,” he said, causing Rimmer to roll his eyes. “It wasn’t even your low self that suggested it, that was me and –”

            “I know it’s not my fault!” Rimmer snapped. “I just mean – y’know. I’m sorry. That that… happened.” He pretended to tap a finger against one of the screens. “I know you don’t like spiders.”

            Silence rose between them, and Lister’s head fell to one side in contemplation.

            “No, I don’t,” he said, a little faintly. “Thank you.” He let another moment of silence hover in the cockpit, then said: “Why do you ask?”

            “Do you remember what happened the last time you pressed this issue?” Rimmer proclaimed, turning to Lister and deliberately glaring down his nose at him like a vastly superior officer addressing the slime on the bottom of his shoe. As always, Lister was unaffected by the air.

            “Thought maybe this time you’d like to explain yourself,” was all he said.

            “No,” Rimmer said, flat and final, and looked down at the screens by his elbow. “I’m just glad I didn’t – the _other me_ didn’t –”

            Finally, Lister gave up all semblance of monitoring the little ship, and turned his chair around to face Rimmer.

            “Why are you so concerned about him in particular?” he said, leaning back and settling with his elbows on the arm rests.

            It was as if Holly had simulated a lemon in Rimmer’s mouth. Briefly, Lister lamented that she was no longer around to be able to do that.

            “Well,” Rimmer forced out through his pursed lips, as if every word caused him great pain. “You said he was – _keen_ on you. And not exactly – well – interested in… your consent. So.” He cleared his throat. “I was just worried.”

            “What, about _that?”_ Lister gave a snort of laughter. “Nah, nothing like that happened, you can rest easy. Besides, he was a hologram, same as you. What _could_ he have done to me?”

            “I try not to think about it,” Rimmer muttered to a row of switches near his hip.

            “You’re weird, man,” Lister concluded, shaking his head with a smile that was almost fond. He turned his chair back around, just in time to miss the frightened way Rimmer’s eyes followed him at the assessment. The hologram unnecessarily cleared his throat again.

            “Smeg off.”

            There was very little ire in the words.

 

* * *

 

 

            If there was anything worse than an unusually cheery Lister on an ordinary day, it was an unusually cheery Lister on an ordinary day just as Rimmer was wallowing in a mild existential crisis.

 _“Hi-i,_ Rimmer!” he all but crowed on his way through the ops room towards the kitchen, passing Rimmer as he stood and pored over a seemingly unending scroll of tractor feed paper, typed all over in what looked like complete nonsense. “How’s the hardlight going? And what’s all this?”

            The paper was piled in on itself over and over, covering half the ops table, and one end trailed off the edge to spill onto the floor. Rimmer was standing with his arms bunched nervously over his chest and his nose just inches from the top sheet. He looked like a weasel, all hunched up over its latest kill.

            “Important, classified information,” he sneered under his breath at the paper.

            Perhaps not exactly a weasel, Lister thought; more like a rat. Though that was being pretty unfair to rat-kind. Lister clunked his empty mug of tea on the table and stepped around the corner to Rimmer’s side.

            “Give it here, then.”

            With an expression of pure, ugly annoyance, Rimmer barely straightened up to flap his hands in Lister’s direction as one might to a pesky bird in the back garden, stammering, “Hey – no – _shoo!_ It’s for my eyes only!”

            The display just barely managed to waylay Lister’s approach.

            “Looks like something Kryten must have printed off,” he mused, tilting his head at the papers from afar. “Did his keep his eyes closed the whole time?”

            “My eyes and Kryten’s, then,” Rimmer sniped back. “And only mine now! Kryten’s not allowed either!”

            Lister just leaned in further. “What’s it about?”

            “I said _shoo!”_ Rimmer insisted, all nasal overtones, as he flapped his hands again. “You’re not to read it, it’s for – officers only!”

            The sheer joy in Lister’s upturned grin boded only ill.

            “Rimmer,” he said, with poorly-hidden mischief: “you’re not an officer.”

            Rimmer spluttered meaninglessly for half a second before composing himself with almost admirable spite.

            “Well – second technicians, then!” he snapped over his flaring nostrils. “Anyone higher up than _you,_ at least!”

            “Rimmer, just tell me what it is,” Lister sighed. Then the mischief came back with a vengeance. “Or is it time to find out if your hardlight body is as ticklish as your living one?”

            “No! I forbid it!” Rimmer tried to order, index finger upraised between them even as he backed off a step. “Space Corps Directive sixty-two clearly states –”

            “That no third technician is allowed to try and tickle a second technician for information?” Lister drawled. “Give us a break, Rimmer.”

            “No, actually,” Rimmer snapped at his continued advance, holding his hands up between them, “it states that any physical intimidation from an inferior ranking crewmember towards a superior one –”

            “Smeg, Rimmer, I don’t care what it actually says,” Lister laughed, “just come here and tell me what you’re up to!”

            With which he launched himself, fingers outstretched, at Rimmer’s belly – _“No –”_ and promptly fell right through him and nosedived onto the cockpit steps. Rimmer’s nose screwed up in distaste.

            “I _hate_ it when that happens,” he said, each word clipped out like morsels of over-salted dinner. On the floor, Lister blinked, and wriggled around, sitting up and staring at Rimmer still standing over him. His frown at the unexpected landing deepened.

            “Why’re you still on softlight?” he asked, vowels lengthened in bafflement. “I thought Kryten said you could do it without draining the power. Is there something wrong with your light bee?”

            “No, nothing’s wrong,” Rimmer huffed, sounding irritated at having to explain something to a proven idiot. “I’m just being _careful,_ all right?”

            “Careful of what?” Lister wondered, glancing about them. “Paper cuts?”

 _“No!”_ It seemed to take Rimmer an extreme amount of effort to pull himself together: closing his eyes, breathing in hard, and exhaling with slow force as his fists clenched at his sides. His mouth was pursed and sour. “We don’t know enough about this – _thing,”_ he said, gesturing with stiff fingers at his chest behind which the newly-wired light bee whirred.

            “But Kryten said you were fine to use the hardlight,” Lister retorted, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m sure you could do all this research with it, it’d help with turning pages, at least.”

            “Lister, did I _ask_ for your input?”

            In typical Listerian fashion, the man was entirely unperturbed by Rimmer’s attempts at intimidation.

            “No,” he shrugged, “but I’ve got nothing better to do.”

            “How very _flattering.”_

            “What is all this, then, anyway?” Lister asked, stepping forward to poke at the sheets of paper, safe in the knowledge that, in softlight form, there was nothing Rimmer could do to stop him. “Equations?”

            “Kryten’s assessment on how the hardlight bee works, how I can control it,” Rimmer answered, as if by instinct. Immediately afterwards, he again tried to shoo Lister away. “You wouldn’t understand, anyway.”

            “All right, all right,” Lister conceded, backing up with his hands up by his shoulders, palms out. “I’ll leave you to it. Just, y’know – give us a shout if you need help turning pages.” He finished off with a grin, and turned to walk away. Rimmer’s expression soured as he watched his back disappear into the kitchen.

 _“Your_ help is the last thing I need,” he muttered under his breath, and turned back to his papers with a simulated sigh. “Smegging Ace smegging Rimmer,” he went on, fingers twisting and clenching behind his back. “Smegging _triplicator._ Just – _smeg.”_

 

* * *

 

            What Lister said, in the end, was, “Are you really gonna be the one to break the chain?”

            What Rimmer heard, was: “Go ahead. It’s better than keeping you here with us.”

            At least the joviality of Ace meant he could hug Lister without having to ask or make it awkward. A fine pat on the back and a tense hand on his ribs, and an unfamiliar nickname in his mouth. That was the way to go.

 

            On Lister’s side: _It’s for the best. It’s for the best. It’s for the best._ Rimmer was a smeghead, but he was _their_ smeghead, and though there needed to be an Ace, and Rimmer desperately needed a shove in the direction of _less-of-a-bastard,_ if Lister thought too long and hard about what he was doing, he knew he’d chicken out. After all, Rimmer had been brought back for him, hadn’t he? And yes, he was a coward in all things, but he never left Lister unchallenged or unamused, and over the years, he had mellowed out, in their downtime, into something almost loveable. There was no way Lister could fight off the beast of Rimmer’s self-loathing, or watch him helplessly turn a wish-fulfilment game into a nightmare, without dredging up a little bit of sympathy for his bitterness. With every new adventure in which Rimmer blamed his parents, or upbringing, or contacts, or the JMC, or Todhunter, or Lister, or whatever new scapegoat he’d cooked up, there came a shouting match in which Lister pointed out to him precisely how invalid his arguments were; and with each of these arguments, Rimmer’s protestations had grown a little weaker, and the light of terrified acknowledgement had begun to grow in his eyes. Lister wanted to keep him around to see exactly when that fragile façade would fall, and at the same time, he knew that pushing him out the door and into Ace’s boots would get the job done far quicker and better than staying on _Red Dwarf_.

            After all, there was nothing like becoming an adored, selfless, courageous space hero to encourage self-reflection.

            Lister knew that it would probably mean never seeing Rimmer again; he just focused very hard, instead, on the knowledge that Rimmer would be busier, happier, and _better_ with the challenge.

 

* * *

 

            The new ship – the new-new-(new?-) _Red Dwarf_ – was a gleaming white monstrosity on the inside, a weird kind of jolt after the gritty greys and reds they’d grown used to over the years. The nanobots had taken a bit of tracking down again, in the half-corroded ship, a task made simultaneously easier and harder without Rimmer; but they’d otherwise done a good job, in their brief and admittedly enforced sojourn back to the ship, once the microbe had been neutralised. Unfortunately, they’d also undone their work resurrecting the crew, each escape pod and _Blue Midget_ blinking out of existence. And their tastes in interior decorating were a surprise, at the very least.

            “I suppose we ought to be grateful,” Kryten mused, as they wandered the familiar-unfamiliar corridors for their first time. “After all, we wouldn’t have a ship without them.”

            “Oh great,” said the Cat, with a hint of a snarl, “another empty hell hole to hang around in doing nothing. And I was gonna have such a good time raiding everyone’s wardrobes! Now we’re back to ‘everyone’s been dead for three million years’-mode, it’ll all be dust again!”

            “I just can’t believe it was Rimmer who saved us,” said Kochanski, with a note of slightly horrified wonder. “I mean, _Rimmer._ The same useless smeg who couldn’t face Hollister’s disappointment without spontaneously weeping, and he fixed the machine all by himself?”

            “It was a fluke,” Lister shrugged.

            “Still,” said Kryten, “I suppose we ought to be proud of him. After all, he did always lust after military glory, didn’t he? Now two out of three of his deaths have been unusually heroic. Especially for him.”

            “Yeah, maybe that’s why he was always such a scaredy-mouse!” the Cat chipped in, dripping with almost as much sarcasm as he was sequins. “He was saving all his heroism for self-sacrificing deaths!” He ended his speech with lips curled over his incisors and a glare so dry it could have wiped out a year’s worth of water supplies.

            “Maybe he was just making up for the first one,” suggested Kochanski. “I should probably thank him for keeping me alive, this time.”

            “Technically, that was the nanobots,” said Kryten. “And since you’re from a different dimension, I doubt they had a choice in it anyway.” He _almost_ sounded like he wouldn’t have preferred it otherwise.

            “I still don’t think his last death counts as heroism,” snapped the Cat. “That knight probably died in a freak accident at the same time as it was killing Cavern-Nostrils. Seems more likely, anyhow.”

            At the back of the group, Lister – with his hands stuck deep in his jacket pockets – finally joined in, in a subdued and rather resigned tone of voice.

            “Guys…”

            “Nonsense!” Kryten was saying. “Mr Rimmer stepped in where Ace could not! He may have been a – a –”

            “A smeghead?” Kochanski offered.

            “Yes, a that, thank you ma’am,” Kryten went on in relief. “He may have been a _that,_ but he died a hero’s death, I say! A fitting end! Eh?”

            “Guys, there’s something I’ve got to tell you…”

            “What is it, Dave?”

            Turning towards him, Kochanski finally drew their little group to a halt, three motley figures facing the last human man in existence. _Again._ Lister took a deep breath.

            “Rimmer didn’t die.”

            A burst of laughter escaped Kryten’s blocky mouth.

            “An excellent jape, sir,” he said, “but you can’t fool us that easily. Mr Rimmer has, in fact, died multiple times within our knowledge and universe –”

            “No, Kryten,” Lister sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that’s not what I meant. I meant – when Ace was here. The AR knight, it didn’t kill Rimmer.”

            “Well then, whose funeral did we have?” Kryten was clearly in disbelief mode. “Whose light bee did we send into space?”

            “It was Ace,” said Lister. “He died, not Rimmer.”

            “But we _saw_ him fly off,” said the Cat, adjusting his cuffs. “And he wasn’t a hologram, either! That was Ace all right. No one else comes so close to being as handsome as _me.”_

            “No,” Lister repeated, forced to laugh at the implication – “that was Rimmer. Ace – wasn’t the original Ace. He was another hardlight hologram. In all the infinite universes, there are infinite Rimmers, and they go about passing on the mantle of Ace when they die. That Ace was injured when he came to us, and… he asked me to help get _our_ Rimmer on board to be the next one. He died, and Rimmer took his place.” He gave a little grimace of remorse, in the face of their blank responses. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, I should’ve, but it never seemed right – but – Rimmer didn’t die that time. He’s still out there somewhere, just… being Ace.”

            There was silence for a long moment, in which Kochanski looked mightily puzzled, and Kryten’s spinning hard drive was almost audible. The Cat’s mouth was hanging a little open.

            “So…” he eventually said – “you mean Goalpost Head might still come _back?”_ Lister half-shrugged, and half-nodded. “Aw, _man!_ Just when I thought we’d finally got rid of him for good!”

            “He _won’t_ come back, though, will he?” said Kochanski, very matter-of-fact. _“Probably_ not, at least. Why would he? You said the Aces pass on the mantle when they die, right? So he’s Ace until the end. Like the others.”

            “And when _he_ dies,” Lister finished for her, “he won’t be coming back here. He’ll go find some other Rimmer to – carry on the chain.”

            “Oh,” the Cat sighed, and laughed a little. “Phew! I was about to start worrying there! So it makes no difference then? He’s not dead, but he’s still gone, along with the nanobot replacement git.”

            Lister nodded, giving room for Kryten to butt in.

            “Then, forgive me, sir,” he said, leaning forward as if in conspiracy – “why tell us? If it makes no material and little emotional difference?”

            A silent shrug was the first answer; then Lister said, mostly to the ground:

            “I thought you all ought to know the truth, that’s all. Since you were talking about him being dead three times over and all… Only seemed right.”

            “I understand, Lister,” said Kochanski, taking his arm and gently tugging him along the corridor, where she led him and the rest of the group in the rest of their reconnaissance. “They should know what happened to their crewmate, either way. I didn’t know your Rimmer, the original one – but thank you for telling us the truth.”

            “Few years late, is all,” muttered the Cat, but that was the last he’d care about it. A heavy, awkward silence settled over the group, as Lister wallowed in the unexpected melancholy the conversation had ushered in. He’d been ready for relief. After a minute or two, though, Kryten spotted another vending machine, and insisted they try it out; then, when it gave them wonton soup instead of the coffee they’d asked for, that they write it down for further inspection before carrying on their way.

            Add a report book, Lister thought to himself, and a snooty, down-the-nose gaze, and it might as well have been the old days again. The idea only depressed him further.

 

* * *

 

            It happened just over a year after the new Rimmer (Nano-Rimmer, as Lister had privately started calling him) died. All was as per usual – Kochanski was cold, the Cat was bored, and Kryten was in the cockpit missing his ironing – when a tremendous rattle and shudder almost shook Lister out of his bunk.

            “What was that?!” he cried, steadying himself before jumping to the floor and half-running, half-staggering out into the corridor. Kochanski met him on the way, coming out of her quarters with a dressing gown over one shoulder.

            “Did you feel that?” she gasped, twisting into the other sleeve as she fell into step.

            “’Course I smegging felt it, what –”

            Lister was cut off by another almighty lurch of _Red Dwarf_ , as if it were trying to shake them off. He kept his feet, though, and followed on Kochanski’s heels to the cockpit. The Cat had beaten them there, and was already swinging into his usual seat.

            “Anything on the scanners?” he was asking Kryten, and didn’t look up as Lister and Kochanski entered, almost taking it for granted that they’d be there.

            “Nothing yet,” said Kryten. “What about your nose?”

            The Cat sniffed the air with very serious intent.

            “Is that – cologne?” he said, squinting. “It’s definitely a swirly thing.”

            “Kryten?” said Lister.

            “Scanners indicate – an incoming ship?” came the answer. “Looks like a dimension jump. Sir, we’ve seen this before –”

 _Red Dwarf_ gave another shudder. _A dimension jump._ Lister glanced back at Kochanski, but her expression was inscrutable. An indistinct swirl of light and colour appeared out the window ahead of them, and the ship gave another few bumps; then the swirl resolved into a wormhole, which blinked in and out of existence with just enough time to let a lithe, compact little ship whiz past their bow like a bullet from the pistol of the Riviera Kid. Even from their two encounters with it, it was instantly recognisable.

            “Sir!” Kryten called, in elation mode. “Why, it’s the _Wildfire_!”

            “The what?” said Kochanski. “You mean you’ve seen this ship before? Who’s its pilot?”

            “Only the most handsome, charming, heroic thing invented since my reflection,” grinned the Cat. “It’s Commander Ace!”

            “Ace?”

            Lister only stopped a wince from creasing his face by virtue of it having lost all feeling in shock.

            “Ace Rimmer,” he explained. “The other dimension Rimmer, the space hero – oh _smeg.”_

 

            There were a few ways things could go. Lister was mentally ticking them off as they all rushed to meet the _Wildfire_ down in the cargo bay.

            One: Original Ace was back from his own time and place, and whether he knew them or not would have to be determined.

            Two: A new Ace was out in search of a replacement, and might die sorely disappointed.

            Three: A new Ace was there for entirely mysterious reasons. Perhaps to warn them about some threat they were unaware of, or rescue someone or other.

            Four: Rimmer was back.

            This last option scared Lister the most. How would they know? Would he be able to tell it was them? Was he dying? If so, why not go and find a new Ace? What would he want with a derelict old mining ship when he had a life of fame, glory, and honour in all the universes laid out for him?

            And if it _was_ their Rimmer – if he was hurt or well, on a mission or dropping by, looking for them or stumbling in by accident – how was Lister supposed to feel? Because as things were, he just felt kind of nauseous; and it couldn’t just have been the curry he’d had for lunch.

 

            “Ace!”

            It was a motley chorus, but a chorus nonetheless, which greeted the opening of the _Wildfire_ ’s cockpit. Resplendent in his flight suit, fur collar, and aviation sunglasses, tight boots and hair made for flicking, Ace stepped down to meet them.

            “So you know who I am,” he said, in his casual, friendly drawl, whipping off his sunglasses. “I guess that’s a good start.”

            “Do you know which dimension you’re in, Mr Ace, sir?” said Kryten, almost vibrating with delight as Ace reached them.

            “I’ve got an idea,” Ace smirked back, “but the computer got fizzled on our way in. Poor old thing. I’ve got to confirm my suspicions, Kryters.” The words were accompanied by a friendly slap on the shoulder.

            “You remember me,” Kryten sighed, and looked to the others in excitement. “He remembers me!” If he could have blushed, he almost certainly would have.

            “And here’s Cat,” Ace went on down the line of them, clapping the Cat’s hand between both of his own in a manly shake. “Looking sharp as always – even sharper than me!” He flicked his fringe back from his eyes.

            “Only just!” was the breathless response.

            Ace reached Lister at that moment, and perhaps it was his imagination, but Lister was sure he saw a fraction of a second’s worth of hesitation before his hand was warmly shaken and held.

            “Skipper,” said Ace, with a firm nod, and moved promptly on. “And who’s this divine creature? The heart-breakingly lovely Miss Kochanski? Or do my eyes deceive me?” He took her hand and shook it, then bent over to drop a courteous kiss on her knuckles. “Excuse me, Miss,” he said, in a sort of stage murmur, “but a formality like this just can’t be forgotten with so stunning a woman.”

            Kochanski – despite herself – was grinning helplessly.

            “I’ve heard all about Commander Rimmer,” she said, and Ace shrugged off the compliment with a loud bark of a laugh.

            “Just call me Ace,” he said, then lowered his voice almost seductively to add: _“Please.”_

            “It’s a pleasure to meet you, then,” Kochanski purred. _“Ace.”_

            He winked at her, then looked back to Lister.

            “Never fear, Skipper,” he grinned, “I couldn’t bear to get in your way when you finally got the girl. What’s the story, then?”

            “Oh, we’re not –” Lister blurted, starting off a chain of stammered attempts at apologies, corrections, and explanations.

            “Lister and I –”

            “See, this ain’t really _Kochanski –”_

            “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, no implication intended –”

            “This Miss Kochanski came through a hyperway –”

            “I’m from another dimension too!” Kochanski finally shouted over them all. They fell silent, and she let out her frustration with a sigh through gritted teeth. “I _was_ with Dave – _my_ Dave, back in my own universe, not this one. I got stuck here after a little trouble…”

            “Temporal rip, perhaps?” said Ace, and scoffed, taking it all admirably in stride. “Dimensions, eh? That’s always the way with them. Can’t live in them, can’t live outside of them!” He paused, as if for a laugh, and recovered with ease when it didn’t really come. “So, in _this_ reality, you were…?”

            “Wiped out in the radiation leak,” Lister admitted.

            “That’s all starting to make sense, then,” Ace nodded, with a satisfied smirk. “Just one more question.” Here he swallowed, and his calm, smug expression almost wavered. Almost. “Where’s – … me?”

            “Ah,” Kryten said, “our Mr Rimmer, yes, that would be a question to ask.” He steeled himself. “Well, most recently, he was resurrected along with _Red Dwarf_ and her entire crew by a swarm of nanobots, then died saving us all from a highly corrosive micro-organism. But before that…” Unnecessarily, he cleared his throat, and looked over at Dave. “Perhaps Mr Lister should explain.”

            Lister winced at that. He hesitated with where to start.

            “So – you know you’re not the only Ace, right?” was what he landed on. Ace nodded.

            “More surprised that _you_ know it, if I’m honest with you, Skipper. And I always am.”

            Not if he was who Lister hoped he was, came the rather mean thought in Lister’s mind, not without a weird sort of hope.

            “Right, well,” he said – _“our_ Rimmer… before the nanobots that is…”

            “Spit it out, Skipper,” said Ace, with an air of stoicism. “I can take it.”

            Lister sighed. “He was second technician here, I was third,” he said. “First he was killed in the radiation leak, then Holly brought him back as a hologram to keep me company after I came out of stasis. He got a hardlight drive off a guy called Legion, then – then we faked his death and he went off to become Ace.”

            “I see,” was Ace’s response, all heroic intrigue.

            “We’d lost _Red Dwarf_ ,” Lister went on. “Kris here joined us on _Starbug_ , then we found the nanobots who brought him back, then he died again fighting off the microbe.” He forced himself to give a nonchalant shrug. “Didn’t have the heart to bring him back as a hologram again,” he finished. “He’d have been miserable, anyway. He was the first time.”

            Ace swallowed something back; his eyes seemed glued to Lister’s face.

            “And this – first Rimmer of yours,” he said: “what was he like?”

            Lister smirked.

            “Total smeghead,” he said, off-hand, and saw Ace’s eyes widen, though from what, he couldn’t say. “Complete coward: he’d rather surrender than even _think_ about a fight, wouldn’t hesitate to throw the rest of us under the space bus to get away. _Useless_ with women, though not much good with anyone else, either. Obsessed with becoming an officer even though he failed his astro-navigation exam thirteen times. He was a weasel and a worm, and a power-hungry snitch who’d do anything to try and make his dead father proud and his brothers and everyone around him jealous and miserable.”

            Ace’s face had fallen tremendously as Lister spoke, and now his eyes were as wide as dinner plates, and his jaw hung slack. The swagger in his shoulders had dropped back, under the mantle of the flight suit collar, into something rather more ready to be offended and proud; and when he spoke, all hint of bravado – and accent – was gone, replaced by a terribly familiar, Ionian, nasal wavering that was all at odds with his nice hair and flashy boots.

            “Lister?”

            And _oh, smeg,_ had Lister missed that stupid voice.

            “Rimmer?” he said, stepping toward him. “Is it really you, is it really –”

            “Yes, yes!” Rimmer almost laughed. “Hardlight hologram, coward and everything – _God,_ I was so worried I’d got the dimensions wrong – Lister –”

            The rest of the crew were looking on with bewildered frowns, but they were easily ignored.

            “Prove it,” Lister babbled, cutting him off, “we’ve got to prove it – something only us in this universe would know –”

            “The psi-moon!” said Rimmer, without hesitation, and without hesitation, Lister answered.

            “We had to rescue you from your own self-loathing,” he said. “What about Rimmerworld?”

            Ace winced, the expression out of place under his flouncing hair.

            “Five hundred and fifty-seven years,” he said, and quickly moved on. “What did you say to me when we saw the Ace graveyard?”

            “I asked if you were gonna be the one to break the chain,” Lister answered. “What did you say back?”

            “Nothing,” came the immediate reply. “I didn’t say anything until we got back to _Starbug_ , and then it was just some smeg about the wig –”

            “Rimmer –”

            _“Lister –”_

            All of a sudden, they were hugging, just like the last time when they’d parted, but longer and more serious, with no hint of tense regret. The Cat’s nose was delicately screwing up in distaste.

            “Wait a minute,” he snapped.  “You mean we’re supposed to be _happy_ he’s back? How is this a good thing?”

            “Aw, c’mon, Cat,” Lister grinned as he pulled away from a dewy-eyed Rimmer. “Aren’t you just a _little_ glad to see him? He’s one of the gang, the posse – the boys from the _Dwarf_!”

            “In point of fact, sir,” said Kryten, with that wide, baffled look around his eyes, “not only was Mr Rimmer excluded from the ‘boys from the _Dwarf_ ’ on constitutional grounds, I believe he was also personally averse to membership.”

            “Constitutional grounds?” said Kochanski with a frown.

            “Yeah, no smegheads allowed,” Lister grinned. “But he’s the exception, isn’t he? Our very own Rimmer, back again, God! It’s almost too good to be true!”

            “Thought you’d never see me again, hey?” said Rimmer, briefly affecting the accent of Ace. The Cat scoffed.

            “Too good to be true is right!”

            “Aw, smeg off, Cat,” said Lister, waving away his protests. “If you don’t wanna be here, you can go and pilot the ship, eh? I think it’s changeover time, anyway. Someone’s got to look where we’re going.”

            “And with your nose at the helm,” said Rimmer, all Ace charm, “we know we’re in good hands.”

            “All right, I’m going,” said the Cat as he turned and rolled his eyes, throwing a parting shot over his shoulder. “But only because you’re right!”

            As he walked away, Rimmer’s Ace expression slid off like oil, settling back into a comfortable sneer.

            _“Goit,”_ he muttered, to the Cat’s retreating back.

            “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr Ace – Mr Rimmer – sir –” Kryten fumbled in the Cat’s wake, “how did you find us? Or rather – was it us you meant to find?”

            “Oh, it wasn’t so hard,” Rimmer shrugged, himself again, treading the unsubtle line between humility and bragging. “The _Wildfire_ ’s got a pretty good record of all the dimensions she’s been to, just had to punch in the right coordinates. Something went a little wrong along the way,” he added, with a glance back at his little ship. “She should be all right in a jiffy.”

            “Oh, well do you want me to have a look at her?” Kryten offered, and Rimmer’s eyes went wide.

            “No!” he almost shouted, then recollected himself. “No, no, that won’t be necessary.” He cleared throat. “Thank you, Kryten.”

            Lister absolutely didn’t care about his ship.

            “You staying for a drink or something?” said Lister. “Pint of lager?”

            “Er, no, thank you,” said Rimmer, with familiar condescension and a curl of disgust aimed at Lister’s taste. “Just tea will do.”

 

            Kochanski quickly left them to “get reacquainted” on their way up through _Red Dwarf_ , and once Kryten finished making the tea, Lister and Rimmer left him happily ensconced in his ironing once more. Lister led the way to his quarters – their old quarters, or near enough in the new ship’s layout – which were somehow both different and the same after so many iterations and redecorations, and shouted the doors closed behind them.

            “Still sleeping on top?” said Rimmer, peering at the messy top bunk as he finally peeled off his wig and tossed it onto the console desk.

            “Yeah,” Lister shrugged, setting Rimmer’s tea down next to the empty thatch. “Force of habit, I suppose.”

            They sat, pulling up two chairs by the table and facing each other, and Rimmer reached for his mug. They took slow simultaneous sips.

            _“Ahh,”_ Rimmer sighed, over-theatrical, as he replaced the mug by his right elbow. “I see Kryten hasn’t lost his touch.”

            Only then did it really hit them: _Three smegging years_ since they’d last spoken. Nano-Rimmer hardly counted to Lister, and was immaterial in Rimmer’s case. It seemed almost insurmountable; until, of course, Lister and his lack of tact absolutely surmounted it.

            “So?” he asked with a nod: “how’s the hero life treating you?”

            Rimmer just shrugged. “All right, I suppose,” he said, all too nonchalant. “More sex than I was otherwise having.”

            “Rimmer, you weren’t having _any_ sex, otherwise,” Lister pointed out. “Anything’s up from there.”

            Simultaneously, an easy chuckle escaped Rimmer’s nose, and his mouth went a little bit tight. “More than that, Lister, I assure you.”

 _“Ooh,_ well,” Lister drawled, catching onto his tone. “Lots of maids in distress very grateful to be rescued?”

            “Sort of,” Rimmer shrugged. “I averted a war by bringing a kidnapped prime minister back to her own country, if that counts.”

            “Close enough,” Lister grinned. His excitement about the whole thing seemed infectious; even Rimmer’s sour face, softened as it was, showed the beginnings of a smile.

            “And there’s the time I defeated the fascist Galaxy Overloads in Sector Nineteen,” he continued. “Half the rebel headquarters wanted to sleep with me then, I think, though I only ended up having it off with five of them. Two at the same time, how many does that count for?”

            “Two!” Lister laughed. “Smegging hell, who’d have thought about it? _Arnold Judas Rimmer,_ darling of a rebel base!”

            “I was tortured, you know,” said Rimmer, drawing him on, hungry for praise. “Actually, physically tortured.” But his face became a little drawn at mentioning it. “Turns out I was right to be afraid.”

            Lister shifted closer around the table, leaning closer.

            “What happened?”

            Rimmer shrugged, and in his expression was something casual and uncaring which wouldn’t have seemed out of place to anyone but the David Lister who knew him as a second technician.

            “Nothing in particular,” was Rimmer’s answer. “We located the dictator’s military headquarters on a deserted moon, had to fly in out of range of their surveillance then tunnel our way in. I went in front to scout ahead, of course. _Commander Ace Rimmer_ always takes the lead. But the man I was with confessed that he’d double-crossed us and told the enemy we were coming. Only choice was to demolish the tunnel before they got to the rest of our people and traced us back to headquarters in the asteroid belt. Well. I sent poor Mickey back to the others telling them to scarper, we’d been found out, while I detonated enough explosives to cave in the tunnel and give them all time to get away. I was sure Mike would run away as soon as he had the chance, but d’you know what I found out when I was rescued?”

            Lister was caught up in the narrative. “What?” he asked, entirely innocent.

            “He turned himself in as soon as they got back to the ship,” said Rimmer, with a flat, almost proud smile. “Confessed everything, gave up all the information he had about the enemy, and became a hero. I guess that’s what _Ace Rimmer_ can inspire in people.”

            “And you?” Lister urged. “The tunnel, the torture, what happened to you?”

            “Oh! They captured me, of course,” said Rimmer, with a wave of his hand. “I had to go ahead to get out of the blast range, they caught me just as I set off the detonator. Tied me to a chair and did all kinds of things trying to get the location of the rebel base out of me.”

            A sly little smirk was growing in the corner of Lister’s mouth.

            “And how long did it take them to crack you?” he said. “Five minutes?”

            Rimmer took a deep breath, and sighed it out. He lowered his chin and looked up from under his eyelashes, affecting a humility which Lister knew could only be deeply disingenuous.

            “They didn’t,” he said. He was forcing a smile from his lips. “I never broke.”

            “You _what?”_ Lister cried, and almost laughed. _“You,_ Arnold Judas Rimmer, the biggest coward in all the known universes, _you_ didn’t break under torture?”

            “Well, I knew Ace wouldn’t,” said Rimmer, shrugging. “And I had to be Ace, didn’t I? I had a hologrammatic cyanide pill I never had the guts to take, either, but in the three days between when I was captured and the rebels came back to rescue me, I never told them a thing. I knew you’d – _everyone_ would be disappointed with me if I did. Because I was Ace. Right? And Ace Rimmer never betrays his friends.”

            He said the last with a sense of rote despondency, in the same tone he usually reserved for quoting Lister’s insults or the results of his astro-navigation exams. Lister frowned at it; and when he spoke, his voice was gentler than usual.

            “So why’d you come back?” he said. “All that sex and adventure, why come back here? To us?”

            Rimmer couldn’t meet his eye.

            “That life… it’s not for me,” he said, shaking his head. He was so sincere it seemed to hurt him. “The adventures, the gunfights, the self-sacrifice – even the constant sexual gratification – I can’t handle it at all. It’s a fine life and all that, pretending to be Ace, but that’s all it is: _pretending._ Most of the time I’m just scared out of my wits.”

            “You still did it, though,” said Lister, leaning forward to try and look him in the eye. “I knew you could, I knew it’d be good for you. The Rimmer I used to know, the one who first came back as a hologram, he wouldn’t have survived three days of torture, even as an indestructible hologram.”

            Rimmer snorted at that. “He would’ve given up everything before they’d even picked up the corkscrew.”

            “The _corkscrew?”_ Lister repeated, scrunching his nose, then shot up a hand between them, and insisted: “No, I definitely don’t want to know.”

            “Neither did I,” Rimmer confessed under his breath, and it caused Lister to let out a wide-mouthed cackle of laughter, at which not even Rimmer could resist smiling.

            “Smegging hell!” said Lister, clapping Rimmer on the arm and holding him there, in a grip not tight, but very firm, and unwilling to let go. “I must be dreaming again! Was that a joke I heard? Are you actually laughing? At _yourself?”_

            Shrugging, Rimmer, shifted closer in his chair, and reached up to clap his right hand over Lister’s on his arm. “Don’t get used to it, Listy,” he said. “As soon as I get this bacofoil off, I’m ready to go back to being good old Rimmer, coward and smeghead. I’ve had enough of heroism to last me an ice age or two.”

            “So –” Lister started, eyes wide, and grip faltering on Rimmer’s arm – “you’re staying? For good?”

            Their hands slid down, but they were close enough that, sitting together, their knees were almost bumping, and when Lister’s fingers relaxed, it just brought the whole mess of palms and fingers falling into Rimmer’s lap, where he could press Lister’s hand between both of his own and say:

            “I want to. If you lot will have me.”

            But instead of elation, or joy, or even approval, Lister’s face went slack, his chipmunk cheeks falling along with his jaw.

            “Rimmer –” he started, but was cut off almost immediately.

            “I know you kind of hate me,” Rimmer babbled, “and I know you’ve gotten along fine without me, and I know you had your _own_ Rimmer for a while, and you probably don’t want to replace him, but Listy – _please._ I passed on the torch, there’s another Ace out there already! He’s got the real ship and computer, I left them behind – but I can’t _do it_ any longer, I just can’t! I need –” He swallowed thickly, glancing down. “Order, and stability, and safety, and a smegging home outside the cockpit of the bloody _Wildfire_ – I’m not _meant_ for that life, Listy.” Catching Lister’s eye, his expression was as pinched and pained as ever Lister had seen it in the face of yet another threat on _Red Dwarf_ ’s radar screen. “Look at me: I’m _older._ I haven’t aged since I left _Starbug_ , then as soon as I come back here, I catch right up to you. Holly brought me back because of _you._ I’m meant to be _here.”_

            Silence reigned for a moment, as Lister’s hand rested captive between Rimmer’s, and the little speech sank in, as sincere as Arnold Rimmer ever could have been, even if it was small fry by Ace’s standards.

            “Rimmer…” Lister started again, but he petered out. Before Rimmer could interrupt, he took a breath, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, bringing his left hand into the tangled fray in Rimmer’s lap. It struck him once again, after so long a time, how extraordinarily normal, yet uncannily odd, Rimmer’s hardlight body was. “I’ve missed you,” he said to their twined hands. Only the vast void of space so close outside the window could facilitate his words. “I really, really have.”

            “But you can’t go back to living with me,” Rimmer finished for him. He tried to pull his hands away, but Lister only tightened his grip. “It’s okay, Lister, I understand: you moved on. I left – you asked me to leave – and life moved on.”

            “No,” Lister said, almost laughing at him. “No, Rimmer, that’s not it at all.” He looked up with the light of a smile in his face. “I just didn’t think you’d want to. There’s so much to catch you up on – I thought you were never coming back –” The smile split his face, then, lighting up the room as it did, in Rimmer’s opinion. “I’m surprised, is all.”

            All the tension suddenly bled out of Rimmer’s shoulders, his chest slumping in and his voice hardly more than a breath.

            “Oh, _smeg.”_

            Then suddenly he was launching forward, tipping his head to the side, and pressing his mouth to Lister’s. There was no response, and after a second or two, Rimmer broke the kiss and pulled back, clearing his throat.

            “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Force of habit.”

            “Habit?” Lister repeated, taking in the turn of events with a faintly smug sense of being unsurprised. Rimmer shrugged to himself.

            “It’s what Ace would do…”

            “What, with a bloke, too?” Lister said, brow twitching. Tentatively, Rimmer met his eye, and the corners of his mouth tilted up into a rather resigned-looking smile. His voice was a subdued croak, a poor approximation of his usual proud drawl.

_“Surprise…!”_

            Lister just kept on frowning. “You’re –” he started, then stopped himself, as something clicked into place in his brain. “Hang on. The triplicator.”

            “Yep,” Rimmer admitted, face pinching and creasing in embarrassment. “It wasn’t being bi that made him low. Though, yes, I had some, uh – _problems_ with it myself, what with… Io… and my father…”

            “No, he never sounded like the most open-minded dad,” said Lister, wincing inside.

            “Yes.” Rimmer cleared his throat. “Well.”

            Lister let out a heavy breath, and with it, all the tension in the room. He leaned over their still-joined hands, about which Rimmer was growing increasingly conscious.

 _“Smeg,_ that explains a lot,” Lister was saying, and started to chuckle. He looked up to meet Rimmer’s eye. “And all those comments about the original Ace! What were you, actually jealous of him or something?”

            Rimmer scowled. “Bet it seems pretty obvious in hindsight, doesn’t it?”

            A full-on grin was blooming across Lister’s face again. “God, you are a petty smegger, aren’t you?” he said, though he didn’t sound at all bitter about it. “Come here.” His right hand escaped from the pile on Rimmer’s knees, latched onto Rimmer’s jaw, and drew him closer, but Rimmer jerked back against his grip, staring down his over-large nose.

            “Ha-Hang on,” he stammered, “you – you actually _want_ to kiss me?”

            “I told you, Rimmer,” Lister murmured, in full seduction mode, which should very much _not_ have been sexy, but oh boy was it doing the job. He’d tilted his head to one side, just enough that their noses would barely bump if they leaned in, and he was flicking his gaze between Rimmer’s eyes and mouth at unpredictable intervals. “I’ve missed you.”

            Rimmer swallowed audibly.

            “Seems unlikely,” he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat, trying and failing to be subtle.

            “Doesn’t stop it being true,” Lister retorted. “At first it was more because I was just used to you being around, I forgot all the bad parts of you – but then, even when I remembered them… same story. So: do _you_ actually want to kiss _me?”_

            Rimmer’s lips popped open, and his breath grew heavy at a question he couldn’t help but answer honestly.

            “Very much, yes.”

 _“Good.”_ Lister was grinning again, taking a lot of satisfaction from the situation. “So – kiss me, then.”

            “If you insist…” Rimmer was mumbling, even as he leaned back in. His nose felt too big, like it was getting in the way, and a not insignificant part of him was still waiting for Lister to jump back and proclaim the whole thing to be some kind of prank; but it was not, and he did not, and they simply kissed, pressing closer to each other all the while. He almost startled at the first touch of Lister’s tongue against the inside of his lower lip, but his time as Ace had at least taught him better manners than that. He drew it out a little longer, responding in turn, before pulling back.

            “How long?” he said, breath loud and eyes heavy-lidded. Lister pecked him again when he paused. “How long have you wanted this?”

            “I dunno,” Lister shrugged, _still_ with his smegging hand on Rimmer’s smegging neck, which was intensely distracting in its own right. “Didn’t realise it till you left, though.” He kissed Rimmer again, soft and slow, and only retreated just enough to finish the thought, soft and quiet, against Rimmer’s mouth. “Now ain’t that a tragedy.”

            Rimmer was being kissed again long before he could think of a suitable response.

            “How far is this going to go?” he muttered, as soon as he got the chance while Lister paused for breath.

            “Far as you like,” was the off-hand response, before Lister was kissing him again, and it took another long moment for him to stop squeezing Lister’s hand between his own and form a coherent thought.

            “D’you mind if I take off this stupid jacket?” he said in the next break, screwing up his nose a little. He’d never liked the smegging thing. Lister grinned at that, and it didn’t take Ace’s instincts to read the lasciviousness in the expression.

            “You can take off anything you like, Rimmer,” he said, with a sort of waggle of his eyebrows; which, again, should _not_ have been sexy, except that Rimmer’s hand shot to the buttons of the jacket with remarkable eagerness. Lister, of course, was no help at all: he just watched him fumble with the belt that made his waist look ever so trim, and chuckled at the back of his throat, fingers toying with the cropped, curled ends of Rimmer’s hair at the nape of his neck. When Rimmer finally tossed aside the fur-collared monstrosity, he almost dived straight back into Lister’s embrace, before looking down at himself in only a white polo neck and screwing up his face even further.

 _“Eugh,_ that’s even worse,” was all he could say, before stripping it off over his head. Its long skinny arms turned inside-out, and it was a testament to how distracting Lister was that he didn’t even stop to right them before he was back to kissing a happily stunned Scouse.

            “Well, this is just fine,” Lister said, muffled against Rimmer’s lips. Ever the man to escalate a situation – usually an argument – Rimmer slid forward to grip the edges of Lister’s seat with both hands either side of his legs.

            “How’s this then?” he growled; and slipped out of his chair to kneel between Lister’s thighs. Lister’s hands rose to his sides in surprise, and he looked down at Rimmer with a curious combination of slack-jawed wonder, and utterly filthy intent.

            “Suits me,” he breathed, and brought his palms to either side of Rimmer’s face even as Rimmer rose up on his knees to kiss him. After another long moment’s furious snogging, he felt long-fingered hands on his fly, and, without thinking, shifted his hips forward in the chair to give Rimmer easier access, legs spreading around him.

            “Something I had to learn to be Ace,” Rimmer muttered against his mouth between kisses. _“Multi-tasking.”_

            Without even looking – still kissing, in fact – he had Lister’s belt and buttons undone in under fifteen seconds. Lister groaned into his mouth.

            “And what are you planning to do now you’re in?” he said. In answer, Rimmer pushed at his chest, forcing him to lean back in his chair, and pulled down the waistband of his pants just enough to get at his rapidly-hardening cock. Lister thrust out a hand to catch Rimmer’s forehead on his palm. “Shouldn’t you get –”

            Rimmer grabbed his wrist, ready to push him off. “Hologram,” he said, licking his lips. “Neither of us has anything transferable.”

            “Oh, _smeg.”_

            With that, Lister’s hand dropped away, and Rimmer – almost predatory in his enthusiasm – reached forward to loop one arm around the small of Lister’s back, tugging him to full hardness with his right hand and burying his face in the strip of belly visible under his t-shirt, which he nosed further and further out of the way. It should have been disgusting: Lister had the worst personal hygiene of anyone Rimmer knew, and Rimmer had never quite been able to embrace any Ace-like relaxation of his own standards. According to the part of his brain now taking over, however, it was entirely immaterial that Lister probably hadn’t showered for three days, not when he was breathing heavily with only Rimmer’s hand on him, and his fingers were pressing gently through Rimmer’s imperfectly-tamed curls.

            “Please don’t hold back on my account,” Rimmer muttered, looking up from his careful mouthing at the skin of Lister’s hip. At Lister’s frowning “What?”, Rimmer held his gaze, pushed his left hand over Lister’s on his head, and pressed down, carding their combined fingers through his hair almost until they scratched at his scalp. Lister’s eyes went wide.

            “Smeg, Rimmer –” he panted, and did it again as Rimmer replaced his arm around Lister’s back, pushing his fingers back through Rimmer’s hair and _gripping_ just at the back of his skull. It made Rimmer’s eyes fall shut, heavy along with his outward breath against Lister’s cock. _“Shit.”_

            With no more preamble, Rimmer sealed his lips over just the tip of Lister’s prick and sucked, _hard,_ earning himself a thrown-back head and a long, low groan from Lister. He tried not to smile, and got to work.

            Rimmer’s mouth was hot and, surprisingly, wet. His simulated saliva did not last long, disappearing into light and then nothing, but it lingered for just enough time to be replaced by more, keeping Lister slick and gliding between Rimmer’s lips as he bobbed his head, alternating quick rhythms, long pulls, sucks, and licks. With Lister full in his mouth and nudging the back of his throat, he tried to articulate his tongue along the underside of the shaft, and was rewarded with Lister’s other hand coming to join the first at the back of his skull.

            It only added fuel to the fire.

            A moan, muffled, escaped Rimmer’s throat, before he lifted his head, panting and slack-jawed, lips red from overuse, simulated spit dribbling down his chin, and looking utterly debauched. Not just debauched: _dirty._ A complete mess. And he was _loving it._

            “Don’t let go,” he gasped, and Lister’s fingers tightened briefly in his hair, running gently back and forth between the strands.

            “Why?” he asked, dusky and hoarse.

            “Couple of things you should know about holograms,” Rimmer said, in a low voice, as he brought his lips back to Lister’s cock and sucked briefly at the head. “No gag reflex –” He kissed the side of the shaft, open and wet, in time with Lister’s frustrated groan. Sometimes, the confidence of Ace was just enough to make his timing perfect: he waited for Lister’s half-closed eyes to meet his down his slightly pudgy, utterly brilliant, form.

 _“And?”_ Lister choked out; he had no patience for this teasing, which only made it more enjoyable. Rimmer let a self-satisfied smirk lift the corner of his mouth.

            “And we don’t actually need to breathe.”

            He let the implications of his words sink in even as Lister’s cock sank back into his mouth, deeper than before: much, much deeper. Lister was rambling nonsense above him – “Oh smeg – oh _smeg,_ Rimmer, you can’t mean – Rimmer, Rimmer, _Rimmer –”_ overwhelmed by realisation and sensation as Rimmer pushed himself past the instinct to breath and over the threshold to where his light bee remembered it wasn’t necessary. He took Lister deeper, slowly, careful with his teeth, until he had his nose almost buried in curls only a little more wiry than those on his head, in a feat which should very much not have been physically possible. By the time he bottomed out, Lister’s hands were gripped tight in Rimmer’s hair, pulling just a little, and without thinking he rolled his hips, just enough to surprise Rimmer into choking.

            “Sorry,” Lister panted, grip easing on Rimmer’s head, “sorry, I just –”

            With a long, wet sound, Rimmer pulled off just long enough to give Lister a significant look and rasp, _“Don’t be,”_ before he swallowed him back down, as far as he could go.

            It was too much for Lister’s composure. A formless shout escaped his throat, followed by something only a little more structured. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck –”_ he chanted, running one hand then the other back along Rimmer’s scalp and clinging, holding him down exactly where they both wanted him to be.

            And Rimmer _did_ want to be there. He felt like he belonged there, with his face in Lister’s lap, mouth wide and whatever throat he had open, dipping in time to Lister’s increasing thrusts. His arms were slung tight around Lister’s thighs and hips, gripping at the back of his shirt under his jacket, and he was tightly, unbelievably horny; and he couldn’t do a thing about it. He was hyperfocused, his attention centred on the cock in his mouth and Lister moaning above him, all questions of distrust and neurosis thrown out the airlock so that, for once, he _didn’t care._ He didn’t care how embarrassing he looked, or what Lister might think of him (although the smegger was being pretty obvious about that anyway). No thoughts for his own aching prick, or the mess he was making of both of them, or the chance of getting caught, crossed his mind. There was only _this,_ and _Lister,_ and _yes,_ and _more,_ and the sweet, building burn of letting go while someone else held him steady, completely and unquestionably and wonderfully _in control._

            The feeling didn’t lessen when Lister’s thighs started to twitch against Rimmer’s cheeks.

            “Stop, _stop,_ Rimmer –” he moaned, forcefully pulling Rimmer’s mouth off him. He lost whatever self-possession he had left, however, at the sight of his erstwhile (and by the smallest margin) superior literally breathless, with his mouth still open and a sickly combination of spit and pre-cum staining his lips and chin, hair that was just beginning to recede forced out of its neat waves into a curly, sweaty mess. Without thinking, Lister slid out of his chair and straddled Rimmer’s thighs, with Rimmer’s name and a volley of swear words floating on every exhale. He pressed forward, kissing him with only the barest amount of finesse, as one hand disentangled itself from Rimmer’s hair to push at his shoulder, encouraging him off his knees and back, onto his bum, legs sprawled in front of him and under Lister, giving him room to spread his knees again and sink lower into Rimmer’s lap. Then he moved his hand from Rimmer’s bare chest to his own prick, pumping hard and fast.

            “I want to see you,” he panted against Rimmer’s mouth, stealing the breath from him just as it started up again, the hand still in his hair holding him close. “I want _you –_ Rimmer, where’s your smegging H – I don’t want Ace, I never wanted Ace, I want you, I want _you –”_

            “One second,” Rimmer grunted, squeezing his eyes shut, even as he raised one arm from where he was propped up on his hands to clutch around Lister’s waist and pull him closer by the backside. With a little concentration, he finally, finally, _finally_ did away with the hologrammatic glamour the previous Ace had programmed into his bee; and it came back. Dark blue, and slim, and shiny: a single letter H in the centre of his brow. He opened his eyes.

            At the movement, Lister raised his eyes to Rimmer’s forehead, then let out a swift, heavy breath, on which the words “Rimmer, _my Rimmer,”_ could be heard. Then he was kissing him, thrusting furiously into his own fist, until his fingers tightened at the back of Rimmer’s skull and he crumpled forward, burying his face in Rimmer’s neck as he finished, shuddering and groaning in Rimmer’s almost awestruck embrace.

            After a few long moments, Lister’s trembling subsided, and, relaxing, he sank a little further back in Rimmer’s lap, shoulders slumping with exertion. His breath was quick, heavy, and warm on Rimmer’s collarbone, and when he turned his head to slowly kiss Rimmer’s neck, his mouth was hot and slack.

            “Lie down,” he whispered in Rimmer’s ear, bringing his stained hand to Rimmer’s side. “Let me finish you off.”

            Rimmer squirmed at that.

            “Um,” he grimaced – “no thanks.”

            Lister dragged his head just off Rimmer’s shoulder and frowned askance at him.

            “No?”

            Kissing his cheek, Rimmer rubbed his thumb back and forth over Lister’s ribs, and shook his head.

            “You don’t have to,” he said, voice so low it was almost subsumed by his breath. “It doesn’t matter.”

            Lister’s tone was all admonishment as he sat back and his brow creased in new and interesting ways.

            “I’m good at a lot of things, Rimmer, and sex is one of them,” he said. “It’s only polite to return the favour, as they say.”

            “You don’t need to,” Rimmer insisted, trying to shuffle back, but Lister gripped the back of his head and pulled him in, kissing him firmly on the mouth.

            “You don’t want to get off?” he smirked. “You don’t want _me_ to get you off?”

            “I told you, you don’t _have to,”_ Rimmer repeated, starting to sound like an awkward broken record. He was extricating his arm from around Lister’s waist to try and pull himself out from under Lister, who only foiled his plans by following on his knees.

            “What if I _want_ to?” he retorted, low and insinuating in a way that fully succeeded in getting under Rimmer’s skin. The hologram gave a little shudder.

            “I doubt it.”

            Lister caught him in a long, slow, very articulate snog.

            “Oh, I do,” he murmured. “Want to pull you off… watch you lose control under just my hands…”

            Rimmer shivered again, shoulders slumping.

            “Oh, _smeg.”_

            “That’s it,” Lister whispered through a growing, lecherous smile, and pressed his hand to the middle of Rimmer’s chest, pushing him down until he lay flat on the floor of the bunkroom. “Stop pretending to be the gentleman here. Just relax for me, Rimmer…”

            Then he was kissing him again, until Rimmer’s eyes fell closed and he didn’t feel the need the argue when Lister’s hand moved to the waist of his shining Ace trousers. His own cock was still hanging flaccid from his pants, and when he sat back from kissing Rimmer to undo his fly, he spared half a moment to tuck himself away, only just catching the whine of protest Rimmer let out.

            “Petty bastard,” Lister chuckled, shucking off his jacket and shoving down Rimmer’s trousers before leaning over again to mouth at the side of his neck, weight resting on one arm. Then his hand was moving on Rimmer’s cock, and a tremor ran down the length of Rimmer’s spine until he’d bent his knees, pressing Lister closer, with soles of his boots flat on the floor. Without thought, his head tipped to the side for better access, and his hands rose to Lister’s hips and kneaded at dark flesh and the ratty edge of his t-shirt.

            “You really don't have to do this,” he groaned, moving his hands to grip at Lister’s lumbar curve. “Oh _smeg –_ I mean, you really, really shouldn’t…”

            Lister’s fingers shut him up, forcing their way into his pants to stroke his balls, then press a hard line into his perineum. Desperately, Rimmer tried to open his legs as much as he could with his trousers still mostly on, head lolling, making room for Lister’s searching hand as kisses were dropped on his collar and chest. Rimmer’s eyes opened, but remained unseeing, as he panted up at the ceiling, missing the lazy grin that spread itself over Lister’s face.

            “D’you seriously want me to stop?” he said, mostly to Rimmer’s left nipple. “I mean, say the word, and I will, if you actually want me to.”

            Rimmer said nothing, only grit his teeth and shook his head as Lister went back to stroking him, back and forth, swiftly robbing him of coherent thought. He couldn’t remember why exactly he’d been afraid in the first place, as he dug his heels in and pushed his hips up into Lister’s hand.

            “Shit, Lister,” he groaned – _“fuck_ that’s good, that’s good, you’re so good –”

            The floodgate had been opened. Rimmer heard himself spouting words over which he had no control, praise and oaths and encouragement at which Lister sped up his movements and sucked at first one nipple, then the other, tongue swirling, only pushing Rimmer further towards the edge. “Lister please, _please—”_ he babbled, words blurring, until he brought his hands up, arms tangling in the little space between them, to pull Lister’s chin closer and kiss him, messy and open.

            Lister’s hand just quickened even further.

            “Lister, _Lister,”_ Rimmer crooned – “oh God, oh smeg, oh _fuck – fuck,_ I missed you so much, so much, you’ve no idea –”

            “I know,” Lister breathed down at him, “I know.”

            “You don’t, you don’t –” Rimmer kissed him again, and chattered on. “You were so far away, none of the other Listers I met were ever quite right, I was six dimensions away last year and I didn’t know if I could bear it, you were so close –”

            “I’m closer now,” Lister slipped in as Rimmer paused to breathe, causing him to almost squeak his next words.

 _“You are_ – you are –”

            Then he was pushing himself back up on one hand, bumping their chests as he went, and slinging the other arm around Lister’s waist, hips rolling and unnecessary breath heaving. His face contorted – brows angling and creasing, nose screwed up, mouth wide – and he buried it in Lister’s neck and the yellowed collar of his shirt, not quite managing to muffle a drawn-out cry. All his fingers gripped like claws at the floor and Lister’s side, and his hips gave a rapid few thrusts, then slowed, gradually, and Lister got to learn first-hand just how long hologrammatic cum lasted on his hands and clothes before disappearing into light, and then nothing.

            Rimmer blinked his eyes open, forehead resting on Lister’s shoulder, but could do nothing for his hanging jaw. After a moment, his trembling arm began to give way, and in three, erratic drops, he fell back, catching himself with his other hand until his back hit the floor again, a little sticky, and a little bit too warm. His hands lay impotent at his sides, and, with lazy movements, his knees closed, and his feet slid out, legs falling straight and flat to the floor.

            Lister was grinning again.

            “What was that about ‘I shouldn’t be doing this’?” he said, cocking his head to one side. It made Rimmer close his eyes and groan.

            “Don’t,” he moaned, trying to roll onto his side to avoid the wildly smug look Lister was giving him. Mercifully, Lister didn’t pursue the subject, instead sitting back and grunting as he pushed himself off to his feet, knees giving an unflattering crackle in protest. He gave a long, mournful groan at that, hands on his thighs, holding him up.

 _“Oh,_ I’m too old for floor sex…”

            Rimmer gave a weak laugh at that.

            “If you are,” mumbled, “I must be too. Except I feel _fantastic.”_

            “Yeah, because you haven’t tried standing yet.” Lister stood up straight and leaned back, stretching out his spine with both hands pressed into the small of his back. He groaned again as he returned to slumping over his knees. “Come on – I shouldn’t be the only one who has to suffer.”

            He held out one hand, which Rimmer reluctantly latched onto, and together they pulled Rimmer to his feet, where he staggered once into Lister’s arms, and then again back out of them.

            “Oh, _smeg,”_ he groaned, pressing his palms to his ribs, then his back, then his hips. “Smegging, smegging – _smeg…”_

            “Bunk, I think,” Lister chuckled, tugging Rimmer aside and physically turning him around to sit him down on the lower bunk. Gratefully, Rimmer let out a long, steady breath and lay down, feet still on the ground. “Come on, feet up,” said Lister, nudging at Rimmer’s boots with his own, steel-capped toe.

            “No shoes in bed,” Rimmer mumbled half-heartedly, and somehow dredged up the energy to contort himself around like a pretzel and pull off first one boot, then the other, stripping back the vestiges of Ace. He ignored Lister’s sighing at him, and pulled his legs up onto the bunk, allowing Lister to disregard the rule entirely as he sat and swung himself into what was left of the bunk. He shoved at Rimmer’s side until he shifted over to the wall to make room, then settled onto his side, with one arm slung over Rimmer’s bare belly and his head pillowed on Rimmer’s shoulder. It was a good thing holograms couldn’t get pins and needles; with his arm under Lister’s head and stuck out over the edge of the bunk, he would’ve lost the feeling in it in minutes had he still been alive.

            Gradually, Rimmer’s senses came back to him: he bent his dangling arm until it leaned against Lister’s back in a loose embrace; he shuffled around a little until he was angled towards his (quite literal, now) bunkmate; and, as all his neurotic thought returned, he looked at Lister’s contented, almost slumbering expression, and baulked.

            He’d always been blunt, however. And his time as Ace hadn’t been wasted: Rimmer knew the value of a little bit of honesty now and then.

            “The triplicator,” he blurted out. “The low me.”

            “What about it?” Lister mumbled against Rimmer’s chest.

            “You were right about what made him evil,” Rimmer went on, trying to keep his voice flat. “I was desperate for you, even back then, but I knew I was a hologram. I knew you’d never want me.”

            “I didn’t want you because you were a cowardly, pain-in-the-arse smeghead,” Lister interrupted, not even opening his eyes. “I’m no anti-dead bigot.”

            “Lister, you’re not _listening,”_ Rimmer wheedled at him. “I’m _saying –_ well. I’m saying you probably did pull the legs off insects when you were a kid, didn’t you?”

            “Yeah, I did,” Lister frowned, finally looking at him. “What are you getting at?”

            Rimmer rolled his eyes heavenward. His throat felt tight.

            “The reason I – argued, and wanted to throw up, and everything, when you told me about all that,” he said, “when you were wondering why he was gay. It’s because – well, you’re right. Because that _was_ a part of me.”

            Lister pushed himself up onto one elbow. “You wanted to – _‘have’_ me?” he said, skirting around the syllables. Rimmer winced.

            “Yes? Eugh.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, already regretting bringing it up. “It sounds so awkward like that. Yes, I did. Jesus, Lister – I’ve at least wanted to have sex with you for – look, a very long time, okay? No, don’t look pleased, this is serious!” Lister schooled his expression away from its flattered smirk, and Rimmer huffed out a breath. “And – yes, sometimes, when I felt particularly bad, or you were being particularly goity, I had the thought… y’know.” He was avoiding Lister’s gaze. “I could just – take. What I wanted.”

            “You mean me,” Lister finished for him. “You mean – what, like rape me?”

            Rimmer groaned at that. “I hated the thought, I hated it,” he said, and his brow was all creased up in fear and apology. “I hated myself for _thinking_ it, and I never, _never_ would’ve actually done it – but there’s still a part of me that thought…”

            But Lister didn’t look disgusted, and he didn’t leap out of the bunk and lament having ever known Rimmer, and that, at least, was something.

            “I’m sorry,” Rimmer mumbled at last. “I just – after all that rigmarole, no matter how long ago it was… I thought you should know the truth. You told me what the low Rimmer said, and I couldn’t even deny it. I felt so sick at myself, if he’d done anything to you it would’ve been my fault –”

            “No it wouldn’t,” said Lister, very simply. God, Rimmer loved and hated it when he was so forthright. “You just said it yourself, you never would’ve done it. The lows were only potential us-es, remember? He was low because he didn’t have the restraint you do. He didn’t have the conscience to know it was wrong. You do.”

            “But – _I_ had the thought –”

            “And you hated it,” Lister shrugged. “That’s what you just said. It made you feel sick. That’s what makes you better than him, see? You can be a selfish piece of smeg, but not _that_ selfish.”

            Rimmer stared at him for a long moment. He’d just admitted to thinking about assaulting him, and here he still lay, right beside him, calm as ever? Something was seriously wrong with the smegger.

            But, of course, Rimmer had always known that.

            Carefully – giving room for Lister to stop him – Rimmer lifted his right hand and smoothed his fingers along Lister’s cheek and jaw, pulling him into a lingering kiss.

            “So,” Lister murmured against his mouth when they pulled apart: “how’re we gonna break it to Cat that you’re staying?”

            Rimmer gave a wicked, arrogant smile under his big nose that was all Arnold Judas, and never Ace.

            “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written in lieu of an essay deconstructing late twentieth century representations of queerness (particularly gay men) as fetish/predator. And yes, I do know that technically there are instances where Rimmer can smell things as a softlight hologram, but come on. It's _Red Dwarf_. Continuity is a myth.
> 
> Also be it known that I can't stand, and am very bad at, written accents. Y'all know what Lister sounds like.


End file.
